


Our Secret Life

by doctornerdington



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Inspired by Literature, M/M, Non-Monogamy, Pastiche, Sex Work, Sexual Experimentation, ShSpesh, Threesome, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian pornography, all the sex acts, my secret life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3851224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/pseuds/doctornerdington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I sat in my armchair long into that night, reading through every word on those hidden pages and knowing that I was surely the first to do so since the ink had dried many years ago...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Based very loosely on the anonymous and rightfully-infamous work of Victorian pornography My Secret Life, this fic is an attempt to rehabilitate a seriously problematic text... WITH SEXY RESULTS for Holmes and Watson. 
> 
> There is a *lot* of non-con and dub-con in the original text, which I have removed entirely. So if you're put off by the source material, don't worry. I fixed it. ;)

**Our Secret Life**  
London  
Privately Printed for Subscribers  
1995

This first reprint of _Our Secret Life_ is for private distribution among connoisseur collectors. It is strictly limited to four hundred and seventy five copies, all of which have been subscribed for prior to publication.

 

Preface

I never met my great-great-uncle John Watson (he passed away, of course, many years before I was born), but he is as well-known to me as he is to half the world – as the friend and chronicler of the immortal Sherlock Holmes. Family lore paints him as a kindly man, if quiet and somewhat withdrawn from his relations. His only sister, my great-grandmother Harriet, was a difficult woman by all accounts, overfond of drink and other less seemly indulgences. His distance from the Watson clan may have stemmed from what must I can only imagine must have been a prickly relationship with her. We therefore know very little about him. He was married, briefly, but his wife Mary died in childbirth with her baby and he never remarried. Thus ends that branch of our family tree, distinguished only by its association with the great detective.

A dozen or so years ago, my own father, also called John, died and left all his worldly possessions to me, his only child and namesake. The contents of his safe-deposit box were found to include a dusty deed to a long-forgotten property on a lonely stretch of the Suffolk coast. This property was unknown to me; my father had never even mentioned it. It was some months before I could satisfy my curiosity and travel to the address listed on the deed which turned out to be an abandoned, tumble-down little cottage standing alone in a picturesque cove just north of Dunwich. The cottage itself was uninhabitable; decades of wind and rain had battered in the roof and moisture had seeped into every corner so that mold and other vegetation had begun to reclaim their domain. I found nothing there of any interest or value, save for a sealed tin box pushed far underneath a rusting bedstead. It was only by some miracle that it was still there, somehow untouched by man, beast, or the elements after so many years.

I returned to London with the box in the boot of my car, and forgot about it entirely for several weeks. In fact, it was only after meeting with an estate agent to arrange for the survey and sale of the Suffolk property that I remembered it, and dragged it up to my flat. It took some doing to convince the old lock to release, but I have experience in such things, and soon had the box open before me. It was filled with sheaves of paper, hand-written and neatly stacked, tied off with faded blue ribbon. Imagine my astonishment when I pulled them out and discovered in their titles such familiar friends as “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot,” “Silver Blaze,” and “The Five Orange Pips.” All told, there were 60 sheaves tied up in blue: thunderstruck, I realized that I had discovered the original manuscripts of John Watson’s chronicles of the life and adventures of Sherlock Holmes!

I took up the box to make room to lay out my discoveries on the table, and found that it was still strangely heavy – far heavier than an empty tin box should be. Curious, I pulled the reading light over and peered more closely at the cloth lining of the box. The bottom, I saw, pulled slightly away from the side. I quickly slid my pocketknife along the edging, and was able to separate and remove a false bottom that had been carefully glued into place. Underneath were three more sheaves written in the same precise hand, but these were tied with red ribbon. The title, _Our Secret Life_ , was unfamiliar to me.

I sat in my armchair long into that night, reading through every word on those hidden pages and knowing that I was surely the first to do so since the ink had dried many years ago. I was astonished, and then amused, and then entranced. The three sheaves comprised another memoir by my great-great-uncle, this one never published. As you shall see as you read on, this volume provides great insight into another side of John Watson, and of Sherlock Holmes, which is why I offer them now for semi-public consumption. The memoir was certainly not intended for publication by its author, and yet I feel a heavy responsibility to make it available to interested parties. These two, great and good men both, deserve to have their lives and stories understood in their entirety, or at least, as entirely as is possible at this historical remove.  If I have harmed anyone by printing the memoir, it is certainly not Watson or Holmes, who have long been beyond the reach of human approbation. And after all, surely no approbation is called for here. There is always more to a person than meets the eye, and we all have our secret lives to discover. Let us hope to meet it as bravely and as joyfully as John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

John Cartwright  
London, 1995


	2. Introduction

Much ink has been spilled in recent years regarding my partnership with the inimitable Sherlock Holmes, but none has truly captured the intensity and profundity of our connexion. I confess that I have had a hand in this; my memoirs of Holmes’ adventures in criminal detection have been something of an exercise in misdirection, for while mysteries and detection of crimes take centre stage in each story when it is laid out for public consumption, it is in the mystery of man’s heart that we are truly joined. 

From retirement, then, I take up my pen to write a memoir of our secret life together: from a life of pleasure, of joyful and wanton exploration, I draw this narrative of what we ourselves saw and did and felt as we stumbled together through our thorough investigations of what was, for Holmes, the undiscovered country of human desire, and for me, the too-often unspoken one.

And here I must confess that I had early a taste for beauty of female form—but also of the male. A woman's body, a small foot, a round, plump leg and thigh, and a blushing backside have always been a distraction to me; indeed, to such an extent that I have gained a reputation amongst a small circle of worldly friends for my success with erotic sport. I have shared pleasure with – dare I confess? – countless women in my time, and then too, with a great many men, for a set of broad shoulders narrowing into a neat waist, a slight growth of stubble, a strong forearm and a bold trouser bulge stir me just the same as a pretty woman does. 

I early had a taste for the enjoyment of bodily pleasures; it seems the impulse was born with me. When I was a very young man I had had a friend, a sculptor, who worked from life. I had been in his studio, seen his naked models, heard his opinions on both male and female beauty, and had the various points of female and male perfection shown me on the models. I had myself sketched from the nude, and was thought a not bad hand at it, and had therefore by training, instinct, and a most voluptuous temperament become a good judge of beauty of form. In two instances, the models themselves, in private sittings, showed me themselves, and by them I was initiated into the life of the sensual body.

I had from youth an excellent memory, but about sexual matters a wonderful one. I loved touching, undressing, caressing, licking, and fucking – I loved cunts and I loved cocks, but also they who had them; I liked the people I fucked and not simply the fucking itself, and therein is a great difference. I recollect even now in a degree which astonishes me, every encounter I had with man or woman from the first to the most recent. I remember it all perfectly; and all the important events I can fix as to time, sufficiently nearly by reference to my diary, in which the contemporaneous circumstances of my life are recorded. 

It was upon discovery of this quirk of memory that Holmes, who became my partner in this exploration, urged me to write this secret memoir, laying bare every truth and every experience we shared. There are plenty who will cry fie who have done all and worse than I have and habitually, but crying out at the sins of others was always a way of hiding one's own iniquity. Yet from that cause perhaps no mortal eye but mine and Holmes’s, will see this history. And still, I have disguised the names and places of all the merry participants. All this is done to prevent giving pain to some, perhaps still living, for I have no malice to gratify. 

But my doings with man and woman are as true as gospel. All other details are correctly given, this is intended to be a true history, and not a lie. 

John Watson  
Sussex, 1924

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMING SOON! "Chapter Three: In which my longstanding friendship with Holmes undergoes a radical and welcome transformation." Smutty preview on my tumblr, here:  
> http://doctornerdington.tumblr.com/post/131969903078/victorian-johnlock-smut-yay


	3. In which my longstanding friendship with Holmes undergoes a radical and welcome transformation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The light of the moon illuminated the room from the half-open window, and I saw him looking down at me with an expression of unutterable surprise.  
> “My dear Watson!” he whispered, and then he kissed me.

After my dear Mary’s death, I returned to Baker Street. I had been happily faithful to her throughout our brief marriage, for she was everything I could possibly desire in a partner, both in my bed and in my life. I would not dishonor her or myself by abandoning our marriage vows. 

In the year following my return, I abstained from women and indeed from taking pleasure with men, as well. At first my grief prohibited any interest in such activities, and then, as the keenness of my despair began to dull a little, I found to my great consternation that my fondness for Holmes had – in a creeping, subtle flowering that had occurred almost unbeknownst to me – become an all-consuming passion. To my surprise, I had no interest in pursuing any other. 

Whatever we were doing, whether on a case together, rambling about in St. James’s Park with his arm in my own, or simply sitting at our own hearth reading or writing, my mind ran constantly to him. I was aware, always, of his body and its proximity to mine. At times I felt I should go mad with thoughts of the many and various acts I wished to perform with him—on him. He was, and still is, an exceptionally beautiful man. He has the whitest, creamiest skin I ever saw, which contrasts superlatively with his dark curls and piercing eyes. How I longed to touch his perfect form: his broad shoulders, wiry limbs, his surprisingly voluptuous arse. My hands often ached with the pain of not caressing him.

Having never observed him taking an interest in any kind of physical pleasure, however, I felt certain he would have little desire to enact so drastic a change in our relations – even if he did share my inverted proclivities. I steeled myself to a life of agonizing temptation and unspoken, unrequited lust. And yet, the prospect filled me with nothing but gratitude that I should be allowed to share the days of such an exceptional man, if not his nights. 

And then one night, everything changed. The world flipped over and then righted itself, and our lives were forever altered. At the time, we were not even conscious enough to shape events to our will. It came about in this way. 

We were in the tiny village of Chandler’s Ford, pursuing a disgraced London banker who had taken to his heels when Holmes’ investigation threatened his latest fraud. Holmes knew him to be hidden in the village, but had been unable to locate him on the first day of our pursuit. We had taken the only room available in the area: a single above the little public house that served a ragged assortment of farmers and labourers with surprisingly excellent bitter. 

I looked with trepidation at the small bed we were to share. How many nights we have slept together in the same bed while traveling on cases I cannot even estimate, but it was not few. It had become an exquisite torture for me, lying beside him and never daring to touch his body. I was always very careful to turn myself away from him, so that I would not disgrace myself inadvertently during the night. As controlled as I was during the day, I did not know how far I could trust my sleeping self. And indeed, I was right to worry. 

We undressed and slipped into bed, back to back, as was our usual arrangement when forced by circumstance into such close quarters. On similar cases, Holmes often sat vigil at the window, passing the night with his pipe for company despite my protestations that he think of his health and take some rest. Tonight, however, he joined me in bed without a word and was soon breathing in the soft and regular cadence of sleep. I closed my eyes. The warmth from his back radiated into my own, and I soon followed him into dreams.

Sometime during the night, however, I must have turned. When I next awoke, it was still dark. I was lying facing Holmes’ back. My face was nuzzled into the crook of his neck, my traitorous body pressed fully against his. As I slowly regained consciousness, I realized my prick was fully hard against him, and that I was thrusting my hips, ever so slightly, slowly grinding out my pleasure. I stilled immediately and held my breath, praying that he yet slept; I greatly feared offending my dearest friend with such lewdness. 

He did not move, apart from his gentle, regular breath, and he made no sound. I knew I should withdraw—should make my bed on the floor from that night on, for my own sanity if not my safety—but I was weak and in my sleep-dazed state I could not pry myself away. The smell of him! The warmth of the man, so vulnerable and so trusting against me. I believe I turned my head slightly: just enough to kiss him, once, where my mouth met the side of his throat.

At that, a shudder racked his body. To this day, I do not know if he had been asleep--but certainly, he was not now. He half rose up, and turned his long body to face me. The light of the moon illuminated the room from the half-open window, and I saw him looking down at me with an expression of unutterable surprise. 

“My dear Watson!” he whispered, and then he kissed me. 

How can I recollect what I thought in that maddening moment of fierce desire to have him? I grasped him round the waist, and pushed him to his back. No resistance, not a word was said. I felt more movement against me, his sighs were stronger, his hand moved restlessly over my back, our mouths were glued together. His lips are wet, or it is mine which are getting wet? There is a new, voluptuous sensation I never experienced before, it delights me; I glue my lips tighter to his, our heaves are quicker, our sighs shorter, I feel the least bit of his tongue touching my lips. It was to me an inspiration; shooting out my tongue into his mouth,—his comes out to meet it; the delight spreads electrically through our bodies.

He is down on the bed, his nightshirt up, I see the creamy flesh, corded, wiry thighs, the dark hair surrounding his cock for a second, I am on him, on him, a slight sob as my prick thrust up against his, once, twice, and we are spending in each other's embraces, mouth to mouth, belly to belly, prick to prick, almost the instant I had covered him. How strange that I should recollect this all so clearly; and yet I have no sense of time, all is oblivium and elysium at the same time. 

Our sighs of pleasure are over, there is no stopping; but with pricks still rigid against each other, on again we go, moving against each other and dreaming of fucking in earnest. Now is the higher pleasure. The first was a maddening desire for each other, a fuck finished before it was begun. Now we are fucking with soft pleasure, and the thoughts of the greater pleasure to come, of my pleasure to spurt, of his to meet it, of entrances and depth and great sweetness. I recollect smoothing his hair back from his forehead as we fucked, of kissing and meeting his tongue with mine, and spending with rapture, then drifting into a waking dream, and coming to myself again, and finding him half asleep, I on the top of him, my cock still resting against his. 

He lay with his beautiful head on one side, with eyes closed, with his hair falling loose. Unable to resist, I tangled my hands in his curls, buried my face in them to absorb their fragrance. It was as wonderful as I had so long imagined. 

“You surprise me exceedingly,” he said, and his voice was nearly inaudible for all that we were so close. “Do you not find this unnatural? Does it not sicken your stomach and freeze your heart, doctor?” 

I swatted his arm, and bent to kiss him again. “What rot you talk. We are made to keep each other warm, we two; to keep each other safe and to give each other pleasure."

His smile, at that, was enough to fairly swell my heart. “I do believe we are,” he answered. 

And thus was it settled between us, and I do not believe I have ever been happier in my life than I was that night; I venture to guess that the same could be said for him.

For the rest of the night until 2 o’clock the following afternoon, we laid in bed kissing, and fucking, and embracing. We were both exhausted, yet I never closed my eyes; I could scarcely believe what had occurred, thinking of the pleasure we had shared. Though we had been more than eight hours doing nothing else, it seemed not an hour. How often we fucked I don't know, but it was the greatest sexual experience of my life up until that point: the longest, and certainly the most pleasurable.

Time was before us, all seemed delicious, the domesticity of the amorous amusements, the passion with which he returned my embraces, his enjoyment of my caresses, overwhelmed me with gratification. We kissed till our lips were sore, and only rose for tea and luncheon because we feared arousing the suspicions of the innkeeper any more than they must certainly be already. 

When we rose, we realized with horror that our window had stood open all the warm night and into the day. Although in a very wide street, the neighbours from the houses opposite could easily have seen right into our room. Worse than that, the steps to the street-door were so close to one front-window, that by stretching forward, any one could see into the room, even on to half of the bed on which Holmes and I had been amusing ourselves. What an awful risk we had run. 

We looked at each other in consternation. 

“We must be more careful, my dear boy,” Holmes said, even as he leaned to kiss me softly on the mouth. I was staggered by his absent-mindedness, for Holmes was rarely – if ever – so unguarded. I saw then that I was to be his shepherd in this new experience of life, for previously Holmes had made no personal study of the so-called softer passions of men, or of women, for that matter. 

“Never in my life have I had the desire—never until now,” he had whispered as he moved against me the night before. 

“Never has the desire for another been so strong in me,” I truthfully replied. 

“Teach me,” he had said, and then he had spent; I following soon after at the delicious imaginings his words stirred in my mind. 

Teach him? Yes, I would. Yes! A thousand times yes. 

We should teach each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A podfic of this chapter is available here:   
> http://doctornerdington.tumblr.com/post/134367543183/doctornerdington-in-which-my-longstanding


	4. In which Holmes and I begin our education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From that day lust seized us both. Holmes was a quick study, and soon proved himself both proficient and voracious in following the syllabus I delightedly laid out for him. From frotting to sucking to fingering and fucking: he turned his attention to mastering each with a single-minded devotion that should not have surprised me...

Modesty retired after our first night together. 

From that day lust seized us both. Holmes was a quick study, and soon proved himself both proficient and voracious in following the syllabus I delightedly laid out for him. From frotting to sucking to fingering and fucking: he turned his attention to mastering each with a single-minded devotion that should not have surprised me. We laid our plans to have each other frequently, but it was difficult. Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was mostly at home, the cook nearly always at home if Mrs. Hudson was out; but quite twice a week we managed to fuck, and sometimes oftener. We arranged signals. If when Holmes opened the door, he gave a shake of the head, I knew Mrs. Hudson was in and I was in for a night of agony; if he smiled and pointed down with his fingers, Mrs. Hudson was out, but cook downstairs; if it pointed up, cook was upstairs; in the latter case, to go into the garden parlour and fuck, all this was done off hand. If cook was known to be going out, Holmes told me beforehand, and if Mrs. Hudson was to be out, I came home directly, letting trifling patients and colleagues go to the devil. 

Winter was coming on, and Holmes used to go to Scotland Yard to consult on cases with DI Lestrade. I used to keep out, or go out just before he went, and we fucked up against alley walls. I took to going to church in the evening also, to the intense delight of Mrs. Hudson, but it was to fuck him on the road home. One day hot in lust, we fucked standing on landing near my bed-room, Mrs. Hudson being in the room below, the cook in the kitchen. We got bold, reckless, and whenever we met alone, if only for an instant, we fell upon each other with hands and tongues. 

At last we found the servant's privy one of the best places. It was near to a flight of steps, at the end of a covered passage, which could be seen from one point only in the rear courtyard; down there, anyone standing was out of sight. If all was clear, he would meet me there. If I saw him, or heard "ahem," down I went into the privy, and was on his cock in a second, standing against the wall, and shoving to get our spend over, as if our lives depended on it; this was uncomfortable, but it had its charm. 

We left off doing it in the privy, being nearly caught one day there. We thought cook was upstairs and Mrs. Hudson was out. I was fucking him against the wall of the privy, buried deep in his glorious arse, when the cook knocked saying, "make haste, I need the privy!" I spent, and she heard my groan. 

She was so frightened and shocked I thought she would faint, but she managed to say "I am so sorry. I did not expect you there, sir." 

"Go," I said, breathing hard against Holmes’ throat, and still – I am ashamed to say – inside him. "I am ill." Holmes laughed, silently. 

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said, and we heard her depart. 

We never fucked in that place again; one day I fucked him on the kitchen table, and another, he had me on the dining-room table. 

We in fact did it everywhere else, for we were entirely besotted. The risks we ran were awful, but we cared not. It was rare we got more than just time to get our fucking over, and clothes arranged before we had to separate. Many times I have seen him about the house, arse full of my spend and with the heightened colour, and brilliant eyes, of a man who has just been satisfied. I used to feel pleasure in knowing he was eating dinner, or sawing at his violin, or working at his desk, squirming slightly with my spend still inside him; not having had the opportunity to wash. 

After some time of this, however, the speed and secrecy of our encounters began to annoy us. I longed to spread Holmes out upon a bed and take my time with him; I wished to hear his voice when he took his pleasure; I wanted nothing more than to bask in the joys of his body for hours on end. Stolen minutes were no longer enough to sate my desire for him; living in such close proximity to the man was driving me mad with lust.

Luckily, we were both men of the world. We had heard of accommodation houses, where people could have bed-rooms and no questions were asked; some of these even gave preference to men of our persuasion. Holmes knew of one in the best quarter of London of the highest possible reputation; he had learned of it from a former client. Between us, we schemed to make a visit. We were so often away on cases together that making our excuses was simplicity itself, and they were accepted without question. 

And so, at last, we found ourselves alone. 

It was a gentleman's house, and the room cost a sovereign: thick curtains, looking-glasses, wax lights, clean linen, a huge chair, a large bed, and a cheval-glass, large enough for the biggest couple to be reflected in, were all there. I examined all with the greatest curiosity, but my curiosity was greater for other things, of all the delicious voluptuous recollections, that day stands among the brightest; for the first time in my life I saw all of Sherlock Holmes’s charms, and exposed all of myself to him. We removed each other’s clothing slowly, taking time to enjoy the spectacle of each uncovering. 

Soon I had him standing naked before me. And what a sight he was. Quite six feet high, slender, yet as it seemed to me then, without a single part of his body lacking in supreme strength, his skin was of such dazzling whiteness that his white shirt looked dull by contrast, very dark brown hair, which under my fingers betrayed their discipline and became a mop of riotous curls, the hair of his body in quantity of a lighter brown; all looked much darker than their true colour against the dazzling whiteness of the skin. Sinuous legs, buttocks firm as ivory, arms to match in strength and whiteness. 

How I reveled in his nakedness, feeling from his neck to his ankles, lingering with my fingers in every crack and cranny of his body; in this delicious freedom, all seemed new to me. With what fierce eyes did I devour his cock; wondering at its velvet heat, its flushed head and musky scent; soon impatience got the better of me; hurriedly I covered it with my body and we rutted against each other like wild things, without finesse, and I spent over him, unable to control myself. Then with what curiosity I trailed my fingers through it afterwards, using my own spend to slick his cock and frig it in my fist until he stiffened, thrust, wriggled, and spent all over his own belly with a desperate cry that I thrilled to hear. All this I recollect as if it occurred but yesterday, I shall recollect it to the last day of my life, for it was a honey-moon of novelty, years afterwards I often thought of it when we fucked. 

It was a joyous day for me. Once in the house Sherlock became gay and amatory, threw off all restraint, and abandoned himself to sexual enjoyment without a care for the outside world; here, we knew, we were safe from prying eyes and incautious servants.

We did nothing the whole day long, but look at each other's bodies, kiss, fuck, and sleep. And while we did these things, we talked of our experiences, and of the conclusions we had drawn about ourselves and each other during the tenure of our new, physical relationship. Holmes told me of the pleasure I had given him when my fingers were up his arse; it was, he said, an exquisite sensation unlike any he had known. I endeavoured to repeat it. At the same time, he expressed an ardent desire to see me pleasure myself. We completed this discourse by my frigging myself with one hand to show him, while the other was buried deep inside him. I bungled it a bit, I fear, for my own pleasure was intense. 

I can hear him now saying, "No, just where you were. With your finger -- up! There, ah, yes. Just there!" 

"Does it give you pleasure?" I slowed my pace and lightened my touch within him, and he groaned out in frustration. “Can you come without a hand on your cock, I wonder?”

"Oh yes, but don’t stop, only don’t stop! Oh!—oh!—I am doing it—oh!" 

He gave no violent writhes, nor twists, nor jerked his arse, nor wriggled as he spent, but just as my own pleasure came on and my cock began to twitch in my hand, his belly heaved up and I felt his arsehole, around my finger, quiver and throb, and his cock jetted its sperm onto his stomach, all untouched. He moaned his way through it, for once forbearing to lower his voice. Then when his pleasure was over; lolling his tongue against mine, and sucking my very breath from me, he quietly subsided. I saw that his face was wet, and held him closer. I did not ever wish to leave him.

Nothing opens a person’s heart like fucking. A man laying satisfied by your side, his belly bedewed with spunk, with fingers tracing patterns on your skin, and mouth red and swollen from your kisses; will tell you more than he will at any other time. Sherlock did that day. He had thought me an excellent man in the early years of our friendship, he said, and had liked me very much. My reputation with ladies, however, and my marriage to Mary had made him despair of ever deepening our friendship past what commonly exists between male friends. But just as I had been drawn to him virtually without my knowledge, ideas had begun to fill his mind with images of lust and pleasure, leaving undefined sensations and unsatisfied longings which is known as desire—desire for me.

He looked at me shyly, then, up through his pretty lashes.

We fell asleep, and must have been in the room some hours, when we awakened about 9 o'clock in the evening. We had eaten nothing that day, and both were hungry. We dressed and left, went to a quietish public-house, and had some simple food and beer, which set me up, I was ready to do all over again, and so was he. We went back to the house and again to bed. 

With what pleasure he felt and handled my prick, nor did he make objection to my investigations into his privates. His thighs opened, showing the rosy, stiff cock I had so learned to love, the nest of hair, the heavy bollocks, the secret rear slit. I kissed it, he kissed my cock, nature taught us both what to do. Again we fucked, and this time it was slow and gentle, he on his back with his legs braced around my back, me inside him, and us kissing and grinding and writhing together until we both spent, I with a spasm that shook me to my core. Both tired out and content, our day's pleasure over, we rose and took a hackney coach towards home. 

“Well, Watson,” Holmes chuckled as we rattled towards Baker Street. “This has been a most educative outing, I must say. Most educative.”

I grasped his knee, briefly. “It has indeed,” I murmured. “But you must not imagine that your education is complete.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked at me with interest, but by then we were pulling up at our destination and we could say no more. 

I went in first, he a quarter of an hour afterwards, and everything passed off as we could have wished. The outing had had, to us, all the charm of a honey-moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loads of kinky, filthy, Victorian fun to come!   
> I'm attempting NaNoWriMo this year, though, so there will be a brief hiatus to heighten the suspense before Chapter 5 arrives in December. (Hey, we're Sherlock fandom! A month is *nothing*!!!)  
> Thanks for reading! xoxox


	5. In which Holmes and I enjoy a night at the opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We dressed early and dined lightly at Winston’s before strolling to the great hall where we had seen so many superlative performances. This night was destined to be remembered as a highlight of our shared secret life, although we did not yet know it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience -- I was absorbed in NaNoWriMo for all of the past month. I'll be updating more frequently in the future.

Some weeks later, Holmes came waltzing into our rooms with a beatific smile on his thin face. 

“Watson!” he crowed, “Sims Reeve sings Parcifal tonight at the Royal Opera House and I have procured a box! Air out your tux, old man.”

Music in general, but opera most especially, was Holmes’s greatest indulgence; indeed it was only when he was playing or listening to music that the beauty of his soul – quite distinct from the extravagant splendor of his intellect – truly shone through in his features. 

We dressed early and dined lightly at Winston’s before strolling to the great hall where we had seen so many superlative performances. This night was destined to be remembered as a highlight of our shared secret life, although we did not yet know it. 

We found our seats quickly: the private box above the stage and to the left. In a few minutes the light was extinguished. The audience’s excited murmurs quietened, and then were silent. On came the strings, with gentle grace, followed by the trill of flutes and at last the brass; the first strains of Wagner’s Prelude sounded out in the hall, and the audience was at once entranced. 

I turned my head slightly. Holmes sat beside me, transported. His eyes were closed in ecstatic enjoyment, his head tipped back, exposing the delicate skin of his throat. Resting on his thighs, his long fingers swayed gently to the music. So voluptuous was the sight, I all but shuddered. Oh! What beautiful skin he had. What slender and sensitive fingers! And to what wicked uses could he put them!

I was now advanced in life, and had had many handsome and well-formed men and women, but I had never seen a body more appealing than Holmes’s when he was wrapped in pleasure. The slight flush on his cheek belied the passion roiling just out of sight; his little smile bespoke the depth of his enjoyment. 

I watched him and not the stage, for what cared I for music when Holmes was in his glory? The minutes slipped away like so much water through my hands; I was as absorbed in him as he was, himself, in the music. 

All at once, I realized with mortification that my thoughts had led me into dangerous territory, and that in my ardor for Holmes I was tenting my best trousers to an embarrassing degree. 

I looked down into Holmes’s lap, and saw that he was in the same condition. Instantly, a fire blazed through my veins and I was mad for him, desperate to touch the man and unable to wait.

A wild idea seized me. 

I looked down at the audience seated below us. Every face was turned to the performance; every person concentrating solely on the music. It was barely a risk at all, I reasoned, and I reached for him, in the darkness of the theatre and the relative privacy of our little box. I craftily took his hand in my own and caressed it so lightly as to raise gooseflesh and shivers. He started, at first, and opened his eyes to look at me inquiringly. But when he saw the devilish glint in my eye, he smiled and closed his eyes again, leaning back once more to let the music wash over him. 

Wild with desire, I could not wait. Readers, I got down on my knees for him in the private box of the Royal Opera House. 

Pulling his legs apart, I crawled in between. I was hidden by the wall of the box; anyone looking up at us would see only Holmes’s upper body, sitting apparently alone and flushed with his enjoyment of the music. In such a way, we were both entirely alone and entirely surrounded by people; the thought of all the eyes turned their way made my blood boil beneath my skin and rather had the effect of spurring me on than deterring me. 

Holmes shifted in his seat, exhibiting signs of secret discomfort. I smirked. The public nature of our venue did not seem to be a deterrent for him, either.

Here, then, was an opportunity of examining, at my ease, Holmes’s wonderful member – the exploration of which I never tired. I rapidly unbuttoned him and brought it forth, then stooping I rubbed it over my face, luxuriating in the velvet softness, the smell of it. I touched my tongue to its ruby head; it throbbed and pulsated. Yet the first act of the opera was barely half over, and I wished to prolong Holmes’s exquisite agony for longer. In the dim light reflected from the stage lights, his cock stood up like a pillar, shooting up from its nest of dark hair, rather bending towards his belly: the hair on its roots spread in dark mass up to his navel, and beautifully bright and curling it was. I never could resist his cock: I approached my lips. Whether it felt my warm breath, I know not, but it actually throbbed a response. What a great, beautiful cock it was; in length and heft, scent and taste, I have never met its equal. My mouth watered. I very quietly dropped my arm over him to restrict his movements and touched it again to my tongue. It throbbed at the slight touch. I very slowly laid hold of it. Bending again, I gently kissed the ruby head, when, before I knew where I was, it was pushed up into my mouth, and Holmes whispered -- "Oh, you darling creature!” 

I wondered, suddenly, if anyone could hear us, and glanced quickly around the hall – but all remained fixated on the stage. Blushing up into his sparkling eyes, I bent to take his cock again in my mouth. I felt it swelling and swelling so deliciously in my mouth that I could not help reaching down with my free hand to open my own trousers and take myself in hand. 

I frigged his lower shaft with one hand while with my mouth I sucked and licked most wantonly at the tip. My other hand was busy on my own cock. I ceased not until he was in an agony of pleasure – with his hands in my hair, forcing my head down on his prick until it entered almost completely down my throat, and shooting deliciously in my mouth as his pleasure came. 

I greedily swallowed every drop, and, frenzied by the illicit pleasure of it, frigged myself harder into my own fist, biting at Holmes’s thigh to stifle my cries as I reached my own crisis and spurted a remarkable quantity all over my hand and the floor.

Panting, I rested against him for a moment, nestled in at his feet. When I looked up, Holmes was watching me closely, ignoring the opera that swirled tantalizingly through the air around us. 

A wicked thought then struck. I raised my saturated hand so that he could see the evidence of my pleasure spattered over it. Then I put it to my mouth and slowly licked all away, our eyes locked all the while – his prick still bare and twitching with interest. Just as I finished my make-shift wash-up, the music ended. Swiftly, I adjusted our clothing and rose to my seat just as the houselights came up for the interval.

Holmes leaned over and whispered urgently in my ear, “Excuse me, dear boy. I find myself in desperate need of a drink. If I stay here with you through the interval, I will certainly fuck you over the banister directly and damn the consequences.” 

He fairly ran from the box, I laughing at his hasty flight even as my cock burned with frustrated want.

“Bring me a whiskey,” I called behind him, and settled down to make my plans.

He returned in time, flushed with the several drinks he had knocked back, and handed me a large tumbler of whiskey. We resumed our seats and the lights dimmed. The second half began. 

I took a pull of my drink, relishing the small burn. I looked over at Holmes. His eyes were closed again, but he was leaning back in his seat with his legs splayed suggestively. Eyes still closed, he raised an eyebrow in my direction as if he could feel my eyes on him.

I knew a challenge when I saw one. 

I could see in his lap that his member was stiffening admirably, already -- without a touch. 

I reached over and put my hand over him, feeling the hard outline of his cock through his clothing. Delicately, I traced its outline, from root to tip, caressing and teasing in equal measure. Again and again did I tease him, lifting my hand each time he stirred or shifted in his seat. I did not wish him to lose control – not yet, at any rate. 

And then I knelt before him again and opened his trousers, this time pulling them somewhat down on his thighs to provide better access to his most secret parts.

I took the last of my whiskey into my mouth, and then took him in as well, bathing his cock in the warming liquid, then swallowing and withdrawing a little to blow lightly over the rosy skin. I knew from past experience that this produced the most delightful sensations of hot and cold, and I knew Holmes felt it too as he shuddered silently under me. 

Voraciously, then, I threw myself upon him, and devoured his cock at once, rapidly moving my head up and down, and titillating the head of his member with my tongue. My mouth was full of saliva, for nothing could have been more delicious to me. I slobbered some out on my fingers, and reached back and under him, pushing his legs up around me. With my fingers I lubricated all about the aperture of his charming backside, and then, as he became furious in his upward thrusts, and the downward pressures of his hands on my head, I thrust my middle finger up his fundament, and worked away, thrusting up inside him in unison with the movements of my mouth. I drove him half frantic with pleasure, the ecstasy again seized him, and with a gasp of agonised bliss, and a convulsive shudder, he found his pleasure, spurting copiously into my mouth. As before, I greedily swallowed. He sat panting in ecstatic joy for a much longer period than before. Convulsive shudders ran through him when I withdrew my finger – and just then, the music ended in a thunder of applause. I thrust my finger up him again, once more, deeper and harder than ever before, and crooked my finger just so, finding the seat of ultimate pleasure within him. He threw back his head with a cry that was only disguised by the volume of the applause, and his cock pulsated weakly where it lay; he shuddered and shook through a dry crisis that left him weak and trembling beside me. 

I was enraptured, but now we were in danger. The applause would soon wane, and the audience would turn – would, perhaps, look up to see the men in the private boxes. I fastened his trousers – indeed, he was shaking too hard to do so himself – and then my own, and resumed my seat, pulling my dinner jacket as far over my lap as I could, for I was straining my trouser seams with the agony of my unsatisfied lust for him. 

Holmes leaned to my ear, under cover of the last of the applause. “You astonish me,” he breathed. 

We beat a hasty retreat before the first ovation was ended, and I fucked him in a dark alley not five minutes’ walk from the opera house; I would not wait. He could not sit the next day without feeling it, he told me with satisfaction.

For many years Holmes returned regularly to reminiscences of our night at the opera – of the exquisite novelty of simultaneous artistic and sensual bliss – but never did we dare to repeat the experience, for we knew we had run an appalling risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno if there are any operatic history buffs in the crowd, but yes, I am aware that Sims Reeve would almost certainly not be singing Parcifal at the Royal Opera House this late in the century. But hey -- AU. :) 
> 
> Check out this AMAZING photo manip by duskybatfishgirl over on tumblr! Here's John and Sherlock, all dolled up for their big evening out:   
> https://41.media.tumblr.com/9becf84c4b6dcf8beb1952645b1fbcfa/tumblr_nytc36APU71trs5foo1_400.png


	6. In which I reminisce, and Holmes and I come to a mutually beneficial arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, a propos of nothing, Holmes turned to me as we sat over our luncheon in 221B Baker Street and asked, with a casualness that belied the keen interest in his eyes, “Do you not miss women, John?”

One day, a propos of nothing, Holmes turned to me as we sat over our luncheon in 221B Baker Street – Mrs. Hudson having retreated to her kitchen – and asked, with a casualness that belied the keen interest in his eyes, “Do you not miss women, John?”

I was not surprised by the question; it was Holmes’s nature to investigate everything he did not understand, and I would not expect anything different from him.

I shrugged. I never knew quite how to answer this question when past lovers posed it, nor did I now. The last thing on earth I wished to do was to hurt him. “Sometimes, perhaps. A little. But it is a trifling thing. In the end, a person is a person, and a lover is a lover.”

Holmes shook his head impatiently. “That cannot be, though, Watson. There are demonstrable, significant differences between the male and female of the species, and it stands to reason that you – who were formerly married to a woman, after all – would miss certain female…” He paused, considering his choice of words. “Certain female attributes,” he concluded.

I hid a smile in my cup of tea. “You are inexperienced with women, Holmes, but they are not so different from you or me. Perhaps a story will illustrate my point.”

Holmes sat back, satisfied that he was to receive an answer. He steepled his hands under his chin in an attitude of attentive interest.

I began --

_I have been with many men and many women in my lifetime, as you know, but you and my late wife are --. Well. You are the two lovers I have cared for most profoundly._

_You were there when I met Mary, Holmes, as it was the case we call ‘The Sign of the Four’ that brought us together. Upon our first meeting I thought only that she was a lovely woman, kind and brave, and fresh as a daisy. But the thought of her would not leave me, even after her case was solved, until I could think of nothing else but seeing her again._

_I went to bed thinking of her, and woke thinking of her, and within a week or two I fancied myself desperately in love with her, and indeed was. I recollect now her features, as if I had only seen her yesterday, and recollect every circumstance attending my first having her, as distinctly as if it only occurred last week; yet years have passed away._

_As you know, she was a fair young woman with rosebud lips, pale hair, grey eyes, and a plump, healthful air. I called on her soon after the conclusion of her case, ostensibly to ask after her wellbeing, but actually to pursue our acquaintance. I spoke to her kindly, and by degrees we became free in manner with each other._

_Soon after I confessed my feelings to her, she approached me and, perching on my lap, kissed me quite full on the mouth! I was soon kissing her constantly. It drove me wild. Her body came constantly into my mind, all sorts of wants and notions came across me._

_I told her I loved her, which she said was nonsense, though she did not leave off kissing me._

_Indeed, I was astonished at how free she became with me. I had never met a lady so delightfully uninhibited before; it seemed her ardor for my own person matched mine for hers, to my gratified amazement. This may have been a result of her unconventional upbringing, but whatever the cause, I was happy to benefit from it._

_One day, her housekeeper was out and Mary herself laid the table for our tea. Looking down, she gave an exclamation of surprise and said that her boot had come loose. Watching me closely, then, she quickly sat down on the sofa and put up one leg over the other, to relace it. I undertook to do it for her, saw her neat ankle, and a bit of a white stocking._

_As I laced the boot, she somehow contrived to pull her skirts up so as to show more of her leg. The foot resting on my knee slid – I could almost believe by accident – down towards my member, which had begun to display the beginnings of an aching cockstand. Lust made me free with my words. I praised the foot, and then the ankle, putting my hand further up her leg with each word. She smiled widely and thanked me for the compliments I paid her, blushing prettily as she let her leg fall open to the side. My right hand went up between her thighs, on to her cunt; I felt the slit, the hair, the moisture as she wriggled against me._

_Within a short time, we were both panting. The novelty, the voluptuousness of our game was perhaps sufficient delight to me; at last I became conscious that my fingers on her cunt were getting wetter. Our kissing recommenced, my boldness increased, my talk ran now freely on her legs, her arse, and her cunt, she smiled in spite of herself. Our kissing grew more fervid, she moved against my hand, shoving harder and more rhythmically, then her head dropped down over my shoulder as I knelt in front of her; at the same moment, her thighs seemed to open slightly, then shut, then with a quivering, shuddering motion, as it then seemed to me, and then she was quite still, a breathy exclamation on her lips and a flood of liquid in my hand._

_I had never been with a woman so unapologetic about taking her own pleasure. Never had a female lover seemed so unashamed. I was enchanted, bewitched. I wished to know better what she liked, what gave her pleasure, what she thought about various practices._

_She kissed me and asked me to take away my hand, then; she had grown over sensitive. As I did so, I suddenly became conscious that she was looking me full in the face, with a peculiar expression, her eyes very wide open. ‘John darling,’ she said, sounding very surprised with herself, ‘I do believe I want you to fuck me.’_

_Her words drove me mad, so matter-of-fact were they. There was no mincing about with Mary, no pretense. I kissed her again, and began to feel her breasts, to pull them from her bodice. We toyed for ages together, I kissing her, one arm round her waist, my mouth to her breasts, her hands on my cock, teasing and playing. Then I told her I must fuck her or spend directly, and she lay back at once, skirts raised around her waist._

_She was partly on the little sofa, her breasts out and clothes disarranged beautifully around her, I on her with my prick in my hand. I saw her hair, I felt her slit, and thrust in, lifting her then half off the sofa with the strength of it. The next instant something seemed to tighten round me inside her, another furious thrust,—another,—a sharp cry of pleasure, and we spent together, I buried up her._

_I sat at her cunt and explored her afterwards, all with eyes and hands and tongue. We sighed and mooned, and talked of our doings and our sensations for an hour, and then we fucked again._

“And that is the story of my first time with Miss Mary Morstan, as she was then,” I concluded. “As you can see, for all that she was a woman and you are a man, it was not so very different from my first time with you. Or rather, the differences were not due to sex, but to personage.”

Holmes and I sat together in silence for a moment. I was very aware that he had stiffened in his trousers as I had told my story. I had not, as I feared, offended or hurt him – I had aroused his passion.

“I tell you this not to cause you pain,” I said, unable to look away from the tempting spectacle of his bulging lap, “but only to demonstrate my point. A lover is a lover, and each is unique.”

He saw me looking at him, and licked his lips – for he had learned to tease me. Then, locking eyes defiantly with mine, he furiously unbuttoned his flies and drew out his rigid prick, frigging it hard while I spoke to him again of Mary’s body: of the deliciousness of her rosy nipples, the soft curve of her belly, the wet fragrance of her cunt, the triumphant flash of her eyes when she took her pleasure.

He grabbed at a napkin from the luncheon table and spent into it, biting his lip to muffle his cries; I delighting in his pleasure.

“Here is a counter-question, Holmes,” I said as he sat panting in his chair. “Do you not wish to explore your new interest in matters of the flesh with women, as well as with other men? Do you not wish to – investigate?”

Holmes thought for a moment, and then replied, “Now I have tasted pleasure, I seem at once to understand why women and men get together (and men and men, and women and women, for that matter), and yet I am full of wonder about it. There is much I wish to learn, I own, and much I wish to experience.”

I nodded, near gleeful at his admission, for it was my dearest hope and desire that we should learn and experience these things side by side. The thought of watching Holmes explore this new side of himself set me helplessly adrift on a tide of lust.

We sat together, that afternoon, and talked of men, and of women; of what we liked and what we fancied, and what we thought we might fancy in the future. We ended by drawing up an informal and mutual agreement between us. Short though it was, it had four points of significance. One: that we agreed to further explore the carnal appetites of mankind through personal experience. Two: that we must never harm another during the course of our explorations, nor pursue any activity without the consent of all participants. Three: that we must enter these encounters with open hearts and minds. And four: that we must always pursue these secret adventures together, and never singly, for the relationship between we two was, from almost the instant of our meeting, the defining one of our lives. Neither of us wished to endanger it.

Well pleased with an afternoon of good, hard work, we retired to my club for celebratory champagne.


	7. In which Holmes and Watson make a new acquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camille opened her eyes and looked at us curiously. “You want each other,” she said. “Why come to me? Why not have each other?”  
> “Oh, we will,” Holmes said, gliding in behind me. “We’ll have each other, and we’ll have you. We’ll have it all.”

“Holmes,” I asked one morning, “have you any plans for the evening?” 

“None at all, dear fellow,” he replied.

“Keep the evening clear then, will you? I have ideas.” 

Holmes raised an inquiring eyebrow, and I flushed up, slightly. 

“There is a house I know of,” I explained. “It is extremely discreet and well-run, and full of charming ladies of an… an amorous disposition. I have not visited it in many years, but I understand from an acquaintance that it remains both discrete and – eminently pleasurable – for gentlemen who are able to pay the rather steep entrance fee. I thought we might visit this evening, if you are inclined.” 

His eyes sparked with keen interest. “I am indeed, Watson. I am indeed.” I smiled and returned to my toast.

But an instant later, his brow furrowed. “I say, Watson – I have seen the poor creatures who inhabit some of these bawdy houses. I would not wish to add to their misery.” 

Truly, he is a good man despite his occasional protestations. “You need have no fear on that account, my dear boy. I would not darken the door of such an establishment, nor would I ever entice you to do so. This house of which I speak – it is unique in London, as far as I know. It is run by a most unexpected proprietress: she is as old as she is fierce, and woe betide any man who offers insult to any of her employees. She cares for them almost as a mother would. They are paid well for their labour, and are cared for, body and soul. Many derive great pleasure from their work. It is expensive, for the patron – expensive indeed. But I believe you will find it worthwhile.” 

Holmes nodded, satisfied. “I trust I shall. I look forward to an edifying experience.” 

And so, much later that night, we met up, as arranged, at G--- Street. 

The house was nearly opposite to the new Opera-House, since built. It had a very large frontage, six or seven windows of a row I think, a dingy-looking building that most people would have passed without noticing, or would have thought it a dwelling-house of poorish people. No innocent passers-by would have guessed that it meant something hidden and convenient. There was no light outside, but if you pushed the door by night or by day, it opened into a darkish lobby, then passing through a glass door with a glimmer of light at the back, the old proprietress met you, sized you up, and conducted you to a private chamber. In the house there must have been twenty rooms, and there was more pleasure had in that house nightly, than in any other house in London I should think. It was dearer; but if you stayed for hours no one ever interrupted you. There were in winter large fires, and the rooms were a good size, and smartly furnished. Wine and liquor of fair quality was got for you. All the rooms had sofas on which two could lie, and beds large enough for three, with clean linen always. It was one of the most quiet, comfortable accommodation-shops I ever was in, and I had passed there many voluptuous evenings as a young man.

Holmes and I stepped in that night to find the proprietress in a mood full of humour. She was amused to see me again after so many years – and to see me in the company of an obvious neophyte. She was even more pleased, I must say, to take my money once more.

“Gentlemen!” she crowed, after cautioning us in the strongest terms about the rules and expectations of the establishment. “You will share, yes?” (She affected a French accent poorly, but with dogged perseverance.) “You will enjoy together? I have, I believe, just the girl for you. Camille!” she called into the hall. 

An instant later, a woman appeared. She was a very fine tall woman, gently rounded and well-built. She said she was twenty-eight, but I believe she was closer to forty, for her attitude spoke of an inner confidence and capability that was most reassuring. She had grey eyes, and lightest auburn hair,—immense in quantity, which was very pleasing. She was dressed in a thin silk dressing gown and nothing else. 

Camille led us to a room on the second floor. We entered, Holmes looking around curiously. 

As per the usual custom of the house, Camille went first to the washbasin that stood in the corner and poured out a stream of warm, scented water; then opening her robe, she took a wet cloth and washed herself in front of us. The proprietress always insisted on the cleanliness of her girls. 

“Sir?” Camille asked. “Shall I wash you, too? And your friend?” 

I nodded, for well I remembered this wise and pleasant custom from my early patronage. 

Holmes cleared his throat. “I prefer to watch, for now,” he said lowly, and he moved to a chair by the window that was so positioned as to give it an excellent view of the sofa, the bed, and the washstand. “Watson,” he murmured as he passed, “enjoy yourself. This may prove instructive.” 

Camille finished washing herself whilst I stood watching, then came and opened my trousers. Taking a new soft cloth, she took my prick in her hands and soaped and washed it, making complimentary remarks as she did so. Years had elapsed I think since a woman had washed me, and then it was by a French woman and I was abroad. Delighted, I sank into sensation and reminiscence. 

The operation excited me; I stiffened. 

"Let me feel you," I said to her. She again pulled open her robe, and I put a hand to her cunt. 

"Your prick's standing so," she said, shifting against my hand. 

She put her hand down and felt it, I stiff to the utmost, played my fingers over her cunt again and again, until they became wet and slippery. 

"Shall we to bed?" said she after feeling me quietly for a minute more. She pulled her robe off entirely; and suddenly I felt a presence behind me, and hands on my back and shoulders. “See?” she said, “Your friend is here to help me.” 

Indeed it was Holmes, come to stand behind me and assist Camille in pulling off my clothes. He stripped me gently, laying my clothes over his vacated chair, until I was as naked as Camille. His touch was not by any means chaste, his hands tracing paths of fire on my already-aroused body. 

By the time we were finished, Camille was reclining naked on the bed with an inviting smile on her face, watching us. “Who shall it be first, gentlemen? Or shall I watch while you have each other?” 

Holmes gave me a little shove from behind, then. He was still fully dressed, although his trousers were tented most deliciously. “Go on,” he murmured. “I wish to see you with her.” I turned and kissed him, lingeringly, on the mouth, until he smiled and shoved me again. “Go on,” he said again. 

And so, I to the bed, wishing nothing more than to please and entertain him. 

She was beautifully shaped and I first took my delight in contemplating her, aware at all times that Holmes’s eyes were on me. She said not a word, but my face was close to hers, we looked into each other's eyes for a minute, lust was on both. I put my arm round her, pulled her towards me, and kissed her. She returned it, and delivered her body up to me. Then I laid along the bed, my head near her knees, she the reverse way, and again I inspected. The hair on her cunt, which was thick-lipped and pouting, was of a lightish auburn that matched the hair on her head. She caressed my cock, and I her cunt, and then the time was spent in putting her in every voluptuous posture, and fucking in all sorts of positions. She liked it. “I love fucking and baudiness,” she told us later, when we three lay together in relaxed conversation. “It's the best thing in life. Women who say they never spend with men are liars,—they all like it as much as I do." 

She had splendid breasts and a fragrant, rosy cunt. Lying between her ample breasts, and steadied by her thighs around me, kissing and sucking each other's mouths, we were mad for it, neither of us uttering a word, till she cried out, "Oh! I'm coming,—my God,—ah!" And then she spent, and I followed, and as my senses came back to me afterwards, I felt Holmes caressing my naked back and buttocks with eager hands. 

Camille opened her eyes and looked at us curiously. “You want each other,” she said. “Why come to me? Why not have each other?” 

“Oh, we will,” Holmes said, gliding in behind me. “We’ll have each other, and we’ll have you. We’ll have it all.” With what surprise did I feel his naked flesh against my back. He had stripped himself bare while we had fucked on the bed, and now his hard prick was rutting up against my arse, his fevered hands grabbing at me, his teeth upon my shoulder. 

The next minute he was fucking me while I still lay atop Camille, not a word of conversation passing till he had spent himself deep inside me with a lusty groan, those moments so soul-absorbing in their lasciviousness. 

The three of us then tumbled together on the bed, panting and sweating and heaving together. In the hour that followed, Holmes and I found to our great pleasure that we could talk to this woman. We arranged ourselves in different configurations and conversed. She would sit on my knees and absently toy with my prick, and then Holmes might pull her legs about and stare long and hard at her quivering cunt while peppering her with questions about everything from her sex to her preferences to her clientele. I had long wanted such a free-and-easy acquaintance, and lord knows nothing annoyed Holmes like sham modesty. Camille had no modesty or reticence to speak of. Even better, she let Holmes do absolutely as he pleased, examining her body and her mind without hesitation or impatience. 

Sometimes, things would grow more heated between us. Holmes showed no interest in fucking Camille himself, but was fascinated by my joining with her. So that when she crossed her limbs over my thighs, drawing me closer to her by her hands, grasping my arse-cheeks, pulling the cheeks almost open, squeezing her cunt up to me, she put me up her, kissing me, shoving her tongue towards mine, and saying I was a lovely fuck, pressing up so close that I felt the oozings of the moisture which ran out from her. 

“Oh! my God how wet you have made me," she said, "it's all on the sheet." 

"Let me feel," Holmes said. 

I felt his hand sneak in between us, and Camille gasped under me. As I thrust into her, Holmes rubbed curiously at that nub of flesh that gave her pleasure, located just above her entrance. She cried out, begging us to go on, to cease not. 

"Feel how wet you are," Holmes whispered to her in wonder, lying on his side and facing us as we fucked. 

She moaned and thrust up into his hand, into my cock, and Holmes angled his face up to kiss me. Camille rose up in feverish excitement and laid a wet kiss against his cheek, as well, we three writhing together, I fucking her, Holmes rubbing up against me, frigging himself while he teased and pulled at her clitoris, all of us kissing and thrusting together until we spent in a paroxysm of panting, moaning pleasure. 

And so we dozed. 

I would wake, at intervals, and see Holmes on his hands and knees over Camille, licking and sucking at Camille’s well-used cunt before drifting off, next waking to Camille nuzzling in at my cock, forcing a lazy erection that had me floating on a cloud of sleepy sensation, my own hand wrapped around Holmes’s hard and leaking prick, he thrusting slowly and deeply into my fist, his eyes closed in bliss. 

After a time, I knew not whose voluptuous tongue and round, soft, wet lips were pressed to mine, nor whose hand was bringing me off to another spend, nor whether I was sleeping or awake. It mattered not. My God what work, what prolonged pleasure!—We forgot all else and in baudy amusement we passed the whole night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my porny PWP! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. <3  
> Come drop me a line on tumblr (I'm doctornerdington over there, too), and tell me what naughtiness you'd like these fellows to get up to in future installments!


	8. In which Holmes discovers a new appetite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson happen upon a lady unlike any they have met before...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a small amount of period-typical trans/homophobic dialogue. It's very mild, but please give it a miss if that kind of thing triggers you.

One wet and muddy night in the Strand our hired carriage was halted by a commotion in the street. Dog carts, carriages, people, and horses milled about in confusion, and no one made any progress at all in the great melee. Our driver stepped down to investigate, and returned some minutes later to report that an omnibus had overturned just ahead of us and was blocking the street entirely. Its passengers had been assisted to safety, but were strewn about the street in shock and confusion, and police were in attendance.

We could move neither forward not backwards, and were quite hemmed in by the volume of frustrated traffic around us. It seemed there was nothing to be done but to sit back in our comfortable carriage and wait for the road to clear, for neither Holmes nor I fancied a cold walk home in the drizzling London rain. We’d been hard on a case for more than twenty four hours, and though our minds still hummed with the thrill of it all, our bodies were growing weary for want of rest and food.

We sat for a time in silence, each peering out his respective window at the milling crowd around us.

Suddenly Holmes sat forward, his eye drawn to something in the street. I glanced across to his window, curious as to what had sparked his interest.

The lamps had been lit hours ago, and in the dim illumination we could make out the figure of a lady gathering her skirts under the awning of a closed shop, presumably trying to keep dry until traffic resumed and she could find a cab.

She was exceedingly well-dressed, I thought, although not warmly enough for the weather, for she had no wrapper to cover the décolletage exposed by her rather risqué evening gown. She was slender and graceful; her willowy neck accentuated by elaborately arranged hair. Her face especially pleased me, her eyes were quick and sharp, but her features were softened by an unusual placidity of manner.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. He didn’t even turn. “That poor lady will catch her death standing out in weather like this. Let us offer her our carriage.”

Holmes slowly nodded without taking his eyes from her. “That delightful creature,” he said – almost licking his lips – “that thoroughly _delightful_ creature is no lady. But by all means, let us offer her our carriage.”

“Oh, now,” I scoffed, “you of all people know that you cannot impugn the respectability of a lady simply because she is unescorted on the street.”

Holmes snorted. “It is not her respectability that I impugn, Watson, for she has done that herself. Her means of earning a livelihood should be entirely apparent to you. No – it is her sex that I dispute.”

I looked at him in astonishment. Colour rose high his cheeks and he unconsciously licked his lips again.

I thought perhaps that he was taking a professional interest in an area of human experience thus far unknown to him, and I sought again to engage him. “Medically speaking, such inversion is thought to be caused by either congenital, constitutional abnormality or by moral depravity passed on by a weak paternal influence in childhood and an over-strong maternal identification.”

He did not respond. His breath fogged the window of the carriage, and he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it clear.

Whether or not he intended it, I do not to this day know, but it must have been that the motion of the white cloth against the black carriage attracted the attention of the lady in question: she raised her head and nodded towards our carriage with a demure and charming tilt of her chin. Holmes drew a ragged breath. The lady on the pavement drew her hand over her throat and down over her girlish bosom in a way that somehow contrived to be both artfully seductive and utterly unaware of the man looking out at her. Not professional interest, then.

“Personally speaking, however,” I continued, “I believe that all to be rubbish.”

He looked at me at last.

“Do you…” I cleared my throat. “Do you want her?”

Holmes started and looked at me almost wildly. His fists were clenched in his lap, and he all but vibrated with sudden, suppressed energy. “I have never wanted a woman in my life, Watson,” he said in a choked sort of voice. “I say this to you with the greatest of surprise: I do want her. Perhaps because she is different: I do so want her.”

I nodded. That settled it, as far as I was concerned: what my Holmes wanted, my Holmes should most certainly get, if it be within my power to grant it.

I snapped down the blind on the window beside me and bid Holmes to do the same.

Taking up my coat, I opened the carriage door and ran across to where the woman stood. The crowd had thinned a little now: in the rain, travelers had either returned to their conveyances to wait for the traffic to move again, or abandoned the street entirely. A few minutes of conversation was enough to entice her to the relative warmth of our carriage; I tucked my coat around her and conveyed her back to my waiting Holmes, offering a few words of explanation to our driver, who grunted indifferently in reply.

The next instant, we were back in the moderate privacy of the carriage. I sat across from Holmes, and settled our guest beside him.

Holmes could not tear his eyes from her face, in which the softness of woman met the strength of man in a strikingly affecting union: here, it seemed, was all that was beautiful in each sex, and the union of opposites only set off that beauty more clearly. Although we found her on the street, there was nothing of the streets about her. She was beautifully dressed in fine linen, and was no sham in any way; a fresh, strong, well-made young thing with lovely, creamy skin.

She spoke in a voice that was neither male nor female, but low and teasing – a cultured voice with pleasing undertones of humour.

Holmes was silent, apparently struck dumb, so she and I settled terms between us.

“A half-sovereign; double for both,” she said, blinking up at me through long eyelashes. “And I do hope you are aware of what you’re getting for your money?”

I nodded. “Oh yes. I believe that’s rather the appeal.”

She laughed. “It often is.”

Finally, Holmes shook himself out of his daze. He glanced quickly at me, and, reassured by the approbation on my face, fell to his knees before our guest without a word.

Placing his hands on her knees, he drew them apart and made room for himself to kneel between her legs in the cramped space of the carriage. I drew aside to give him as much room as I could and sat back to enjoy my unexpected and delightful evening’s entertainment.

Holmes was, by now, running his hands up and down her thighs, stopping to span her nipped-in waist with his hands in apparent wonder, then tracing patterns over her chest, and back down. To me, who knew him so well, he seemed utterly unable to reconcile what he saw with what he felt. The lady looked down at him through heavy-lidded eyes and shifted delicately in her seat, inviting him in closer.

His hands were everywhere, then, quick as lightning: pulling off her gloves to examine dainty hands, tracing throat to clavicle, pulling down her bodice to find a flat, rosy nipple just peeking out over the top of an elaborate corset. She gasped when he knelt up to touch his mouth to that nipple, and suddenly his restraint broke. He lunged, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his head in her lap, breathing deeply and nuzzling in, clutching spasmodically at her.

Somehow, he got his hands up and under her skirts, pulling and pushing he managed to get them up around her waist and then, ever inquisitive, he pulled her bodily forward to the end of her seat, gently lifting one of her feet up to the carriage seat opposite so that he might see her better. She lifted up her clothes freely and exposed herself to him.

Her legs were hairless and well-made, soft as a woman’s, but there at the joining of her lovely thighs stood a proud, pink cock; not overlarge, but delectable-looking and quite adamant in expressing its interest in these proceedings. It was surrounded, though not in great quantity, with fine chestnut brown, soft hair. How is it that at a glance all this was seen, and remembered ever since? What fascination a body has! Strange that a mere bit of flesh should have such power.

Holmes paused in admiration of her cock and its surroundings. Her hand came down, holding herself up to his view.

"I can bear being looked at," said she, pulling forth her bullocks, which were as neat and well formed as all the rest of her.

"Then open your legs wider,—wider if you can." Wider they went, and Holmes slipped a hand under her arse even as he fell upon her cock and took it deep into his mouth with a groan, head buried in silks and feminine perfumes.

Fear of exposure came over me at the noise he made, but somehow the fear did nothing but add a frisson of excitement to my pleasure, and watching my Holmes work himself into a frenzy of lust while he pleasured another, I lay ahold of my own cock and drew it forth. Our guest opened her eyes then and watched me frigging myself as Holmes sucked her.

“What a lovely prick you have, sir,” she panted.

Holmes groaned again around her cock, and shoved his hand into his own trousers, frigging himself wildly.

All at once, with a slight heaving of her belly, our lady’s eyes closed and I knew she was ready to discharge. Holmes pulled off of her twitching cock as she began to spend, she spurting up over his face and hair while he grunted in ecstasy at the sight and spent in his trousers.

I meanwhile sped my hand, looking hard at my lover’s face so beautifully bedecked with the spunk of another until I spent, quite making a mess of the floor of the hired carriage.

We all sat back, well sated and somewhat stunned at the unexpected outcome to our evening. We laughed a little, then, all three of us, at the absurdity of it all. Holmes offered the lady his handkerchief, which she took and used to wipe herself, carefully removing all traces of our activities from her person. I passed my own handkerchief to Holmes, who chuckled once more and wiped at his own face, rising to sit beside me.

I leaned in and kissed him with all the tenderness I felt in my heart. Our guest cooed. “Oh, you lovelies. It does my poor heart good to see you.”

Holmes blushed, but I took his hand in mine and kissed him again. Now that his lust was sated, he was tired and pliant.

I drew out a guinea from my pocket and pressed it on our friend.

“No, no,” she protested, blushing prettily herself and rearranging her skirts as she spoke. “I enjoyed myself quite as much as you did; I shouldn’t dream of taking your money. Good evening, gentlemen.”

And with that, she opened the carriage door and slipped away. We looked for her again quite often when we passed down the Strand, but never saw her again. We remembered her for many years after, though we were not with her I should say twenty minutes if so long; Holmes’s lust for her had been so strong, and it came and passed like the storm.


End file.
